


So, Does the Universe Just Hate Me, Or–

by 221Bagel (lily_winterwood)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Humor, Inspired by personal events, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Post Great Hiatus, Post Reichenbach, Sushi, This is my job but don't worry I love my job
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 12:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lily_winterwood/pseuds/221Bagel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The next person to tell me the universe planned for me to become John Watson's sassy gay friend gets a serving tray to the head. (Johnlock, platonic John/OC)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We Can't All Be Geishas

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the BBC adaptation of Sherlock. And any resemblance to the Cheryl of pika-la-cynique's Sakura Sushi is purely coincidental (even if it could totally work in the Girls Next Door-verse, since BBC!Holmes and Watson do kinda exist there).  
> Cheryl's experiences are heavily influenced by my own workplace. Don't worry, I actually love my job.

"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck shit damn I'm fucking late and he's going to kill me!"

My roommate sends me an odd look. "Chill," she offers. I glare at her.

"You try working at a fancy Japanese restaurant and having to go in at four-thirty for dinner shift. I haven't even eaten yet –"

"Get me some spicy tuna rolls," my roommate drawls. I nearly fling my poly-econ book at her.

"Fuck you," I reply.

"When and where?" she asks, winking saucily. I roll my eyes.

I scramble out the door, black loafers nearly slipping off my feet. They're slightly heeled, and since I have the grace and flexibility of a pregnant hippopotamus I find myself stumbling in those as well as I trip my way down the stairs out to the bike racks near my dorms. Shit-fuck-damn Charles is going to have me for dinner. He's going to slice me into tiny little Cheryl-pieces and serve me up as sashimi.

"There you are!" is the first thing I hear when I stumble into the restaurant and clock in at the till, my bike slammed and locked into the bike racks outside with their wheels still spinning. "Charles isn't here yet," my co-worker Lauren adds, voice low and conspiratorial.

"Sorry, sorry, I was busy with homework," I say as my hasty half-arsed excuse as I stride back towards the locker room to put away my purse. "And I didn't even get the chance to eat."

"You can order something later, I guess," Lauren offers helpfully. I roll my eyes.

"Yeah, I know. Thanks for your support."

She laughs, and we start setting up for dinner shift.

* * *

"Irasshaimase!" I chirp in my sing-song, 'this is not Cheryl Fang but rather her more sociable twin' voice. The taller of the two men stalks in with a stormy expression and I will down the urge to roll my eyes. Great. Another one of  _those_  customers.

"Two for the sushi bar with a view towards the door, _now_ ," snaps Grumpy, as if he's got chopsticks up his arse.

"All right," I say automatically, grabbing my pen and the sushi menu and leading him and the shorter man over to the sushi bar. "Will this be fine?"

"I said I needed a view of the door! What are you, an idiot or deaf or –"

"Play nice, Sherlock," growls the other man, sending me an apologetic look. "Why don't you let me do the social navigating?"

_Please_ , I beg mentally.

The shorter man is talking again. "These seats will be just fine, thank you," he says with a smile, and I can't help but smile back as I record their seat numbers and hand the menu to the chef.

"I said, John, we need to see the street –"

"You don't eat anyway; you can turn your chair around and watch the street that way."

The man named Sherlock pouts. The man named John rolls his eyes. I laugh awkwardly, shuffling from foot to foot.

"Could I… er… get you two anything?" I ask. "Something to drink?" After all, Lauren is busy tending to that elderly couple at the corner table, and Ryan is serving some complicated-looking sushi roll to the people at table thirty-three. I smile cheerily at John and Sherlock, pen poised on the next empty page of my small notebook.

"Two waters will be fine, thanks," John says, and I nod, leaving to get their drinks.

I don't trust myself with serving trays. At all. I'm constantly spilling the sauces and soups on them, and I can't balance the damn thing on my hand to save my life. Ryan and Lauren must have been circus jugglers or something in a past life. I was probably a beached whale.

As a matter of fact it takes all my concentration not to overly slosh the glasses of water as I set down the two cups. John smiles and says his thanks, and I return to the till with a sigh of relief.

The door opens again with a tinkling of bells at that very moment. I think the universe hates me.

* * *

Sherlock and John stay for a ridiculously long time.

"Another cup of tea for Sherlock," John tells me when I pass by with table seven's bill, and I nod and smile and promptly swerve in the opposite direction for more tea. When I return with the tea, Sherlock is staring at the door as if he could break it through sheer force of concentration, and when I hand the tea over to John he sets it down behind his dinner partner with a sigh.

"Does he always do that?" I ask.

"Stare at the door and not eat anything? Pretty much," John says, rolling his eyes. He smiles at Paul-san, the sushi chef, as he hands over a plate of nigiri sushi. "Thanks, Paul."

"No problem! Chef's special coming right up for you and Sherlock Holmes!"

I blink. Paul-san knew them? I send the old chef a quizzical look. Sherlock looks at me abruptly, and I take a step back. God, the man is alarming.

"I helped your sushi chef out of a tight spot a couple months back. False accusation of drug possession. It was his brother."

"Oh," I say. "Um. Tea's behind you."

Sherlock grunts and takes his teacup. "Too much green tea powder," he sniffs.

"Okay."  _Thanks, your Majesty. We can't all be geishas here_.

Sherlock looks at me from over the rim of his teacup. "College student with a smoker roommate," he said.

I blink. "You know Mel."

"No, I deduced it by the lighter in your pocket."

"That could be mine –"

"It is, but you yourself don't smoke."

"And how did you –"

" _Sherlock_ ," John warns.

"No sign of nicotine stains on your fingers or your teeth. Obvious."

"Do you, like, people-watch for a living or something?" I ask, backing away to let Lauren deliver a tray full of vegetable tempura.

"Pretty close to it," John replies. "He's kinda supposed to be working right now. That's why he's not eating."

"Oh." I think I'm saying that a lot today. I quickly head to the till, intent on ignoring Sherlock for the rest of the evening.

It doesn't really matter, because suddenly Sherlock leaps up and dashes out of the restaurant, and John groans and clambers to his feet, every inch of him screaming in resignation. He strides over to me, handing me his wallet.

I blink.

"Just… pay the bill with whatever's in there. I'll be back to pick it up." He smiles at me, and I'm not sure whether he just trusts random waitresses at Japanese restaurants or there's not a lot to steal in that wallet of his.

"Have a wonderful evening," I say, as if on autopilot. John nods, and then he's rushing away out the door in pursuit of his insane dinner partner.


	2. Inappropriate Music Choices

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

I run searches on them, and come up with their websites. The Science of Deduction and a blog.

John Watson returns a couple days later, dark circles under his eyes. "Bad day?" I ask as I seat him at the bar. "Where's your… er…"

"Sherlock's on a case," John says, and then grimaces, looks up at me. "That is to say, he's, um, working."

"I read the blog," I reply, smiling. "He's a… detective?"

"Yeah. Let me guess, you like the one about the aluminium crutch, too."

I laugh. "I dunno. I'm not sure which case I like better, really. What would you like to drink?"

"A bit of sake, perhaps," John says, ordering a bottle of Kikusui. I get it for him, and he pours himself a small cup, tossing it back with a contented sigh. I turn back to the till as the doors open again, to seat a party of four and a couple.

"Here's your wallet back, by the way," I say moments later, after seating another lonely-looking bloke at the sushi bar. I hand John back his wallet, and he tucks it away with a nod. "Hope that didn't give you too much trouble."

"No, I'm used to it." John laughs harshly.

"He does that a lot, then?"

"More times than I can bear it."

"You must be a saint."

John laughs, and tosses back another cup of sake with a smacking of his lips. "Paul-san, what've you got for me today?"

"Ah, John!" Paul-san grins at John. "Sherlock not here?"

"Nope, he's got a case."

"Watson!" Another person cuts in on the conversation. It's Charles, my boss. He's a clean-cut businessman, all charisma and smiles. "So good to see you again. Sorry I wasn't there last week."

"It's all fine," John replies, shaking Charles's hand. I feel supremely confused – it's as if everyone knows John. Everyone except me, that is, because I had to Google him to figure out what he does.

Charles claps my shoulder. "I see you've met our new hostess, Cheryl," he says with a grin. I laugh nervously.

"I met her last week," John says, grinning. "But I didn't get her name. Hello." He shakes my hand, too.

It's much later, after John actually stays around long enough to pay his own bill, when I find out that Sherlock had also done Charles a favour and helped acquit him of something in Japan. It's hard to imagine my boss behind bars, but apparently it's happened. And now he's the owner of a line of Japanese restaurants.

I'm still not sure what to make of that.

* * *

It's a slow evening the next time John comes back. He takes the same seat I gave him last time, and orders nearly the same arrangement of sushi. But of course, you'll never eat the same meal twice at a sushi bar, and Paul-san makes sure John tries something new.

"Cheryl!" John greets me when I pass him with a pitcher of ice water, going around filling people's glasses. "Get me a bottle of Otoyama, please."

"In a moment," I reply, placing it on his bill on my way back into the kitchen.

John's not his usual grinning self when I bring out his alcohol, and he insists on getting a second cup and making me take the seat next to him. I raise an eyebrow. He pours me a glass.

"I can never finish these damn bottles," he explains.

"You could pour some for Paul-san; I don't think Charles will like me drinking on the job –" I begin, but John's already pushing the glass into my hands.

I sigh, and play along. "Thanks."

John nods, pouring himself a cup as well as Paul-san hands him a platter of tamago sushi. I watch him eat, feeling awkward and more than just slightly hungry. But of course it'd be bad form to eat with him. I'm hoping John can soothe the Wrath of Charles or something if he catches me drinking sake on the job.

"Damn this song," John says after a moment, and I notice how white his knuckles are against his chopsticks (he's fumbling, obviously, but at least he can pick something up with them. I've seen worse).

I listen harder. It's Katy Perry's "Wide Awake". I raise an eyebrow.

"You don't like it? I could go change it –"

"No, no, don't. I'm sure someone else in this restaurant wants to hear it. I just don't particularly like the lyrics."

"Why?"

"Because they remind me of…" John trails off, shrugs, and resumes eating. I frown.

"Of?"

"Sorry. Shouldn't have brought it up."

I frown harder. "Is it because… of Sherlock?"

He looks at me sharply. "How'd you –"

"Guessed. Based on your blog, at least. That one entry three years ago about how you'll always believe in Sherlock…" Now that I come to think of it, I remember hearing about it through the internet. I was still in America at the time. Something about a genius detective being exposed as a fraud and then committing suicide – but apparently not, after all. Sherlock Holmes is alive and well; I poured him a bloody cup of tea thank you very much.

"Yeah. That. It's still a bit… painful. You remember all of that?"

"Heard about it," I say. I'm shit at lying. "Something about him committing suicide after being exposed as a fraud…"

"Faked it."

"Yeah, I should think so." I smile a little. John drinks his sake and smacks his lips accordingly.

"The bastard didn't bother telling me about it. He just… fucked off for three years, and came back expecting everything to be the same. Stupid git."

Ah, so it's one of those 'complain about your significant other' nights. John sets down his glass and moves to refill mine, but I shake my head.

"Tell me, Cheryl," John says as he refills his own glass, "have you ever dealt with anyone that infuriating?"

I shrug. "Not like Sherlock," I reply. "No one I know has ever faked their death… or at least as far as I know they haven't."

_Falling from Cloud Nine, crashing from the high…_

John grimaces, and tosses back his glass. "He didn't even go about it conventionally, the idiot. He had to do it dramatically. A fall from the rooftop of St Bart's."

I snort. "Ironic."

"I know." John sets down his glass, smacks his lips again, and tucks into another set of sushi. "And somehow he survived all of that."

"How did you find out he was alive?" I ask.

"Oh, I went into a bookshop. He was in disguise as the new clerk. Couldn't even buy a book on self-help without him popping up going all 'guess what, John, I'm actually not dead!' and expecting me not to punch him."

I laugh. Or at least I try to; it comes out more like a snort-giggle. "Sorry, that's funny," I snicker, but John chuckles slightly and leans back in his seat.

"It kinda is, looking back," he agrees.

* * *

Lauren has that shit-eating grin on her face the next time I come in to work. It takes all of my concentration not to smack it off her face with a serving tray. I love the girl, but sometimes she can drive me up the walls.

"I mean, he is a bit older than you," she tells me as I wipe down the counters so they'll be nice and shiny and begging for miso soup and tempura sauce to be splattered all over them as the night progresses. "But he's pretty cute for being a bit older, and when I say a bit I mean really a lot. At least ten years, I'm sure. But he's not bad, really. He's a nice guy."

"What on earth are you on about?" I demand as I check the state of the miso soup supplies.

"John Watson, stupid!" Lauren snickers. "Good catch!"

I pause, and turn to face her. "…What?" is my intelligent reply. Sometimes even  _I'm_ not sure how I got into college.

"Please, don't play innocent with me," Lauren insists as I start checking the alcohol supplies. Good and plenty, yes, yes. Excellent. There's still half a bottle of Takara plum wine – who the hell drinks that? All I've ever seen of it is in the bowls of maraschino cherries and peeled oranges.

"Innocent? What on earth are you implying? That we're dating? You can't be serious."

She pauses. I turn to her. "You are serious," I state.

She nods. "Everyone thinks so."

"Everyone? Who's everyone?"

"Well, everyone else. That's why Sam didn't hit on you at all this past week."

I groan, and cast a glance at the busboy. He shuffles uncomfortably from one foot to the other, and looks away.

"I'm officially stupidly unobservant," I declare, turning around and marching out the door of the kitchen, only to be bombarded with Neon Trees's "Everybody Talks" and John standing at the till with a sheepish grin on his face.

Speak of the fucking devil, and fuck the radio's incessant playing of inappropriate American pop songs.


	3. The Familiar Feeling of Confusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are Japanese restaurants that play popular music in an attempt to be cool and trendy (the one I work for does that, so yes this is a blatant self-insert trololo), and as we all know, American pop culture is just so damn invasive that it… goes everywhere. (For the record, "Wide Awake" is on the top 40 charts in the UK)  
> Fictional restaurant is fictional. Woops.

The bill is enormous this time. John just keeps on piling on the alcohol. I think Sherlock's done something extremely stupid back at their flat or something; why else would John be drinking himself into a coma?

Yeah, apparently the two are not only partners in crime (or solving it), but also flatmates. I wouldn't have been surprised if they were also gay lovers, but John would probably not appreciate my lack-of surprise.

After all, Hideki-san had tried to ask about 'your nice boyfriend Sherlock' and had gotten a fervent 'he's not my bloody boyfriend' for an answer. Personally I think he's in denial.

"I think I should get the bill," John says after he finishes his umpteenth bottle of Asahi beer. I get the filled-out sushi menu from Hideki-san and walk away to put them onto John's tab, pausing only to seat a family of five that come in while I'm halfway through. But by the end, John's racked up a tab of about two hundred pounds, and I highly doubt he has that sort of money floating around on him.

(Considering he bloody tossed me his wallet to pay the bill the first time he came…)

The phone rings at that moment. I pick up. "This is the Shizuka in London, how may I help you?"

"Ah, yes. I'm calling to inform you that I will be paying the bill for John Watson tonight."

I pause to frown at the phone. "How…"

"His bill is running at about a hundred and eighty-four pounds, not including the service charge," the voice on the other end drawls. My first guess would be Sherlock, but I doubt Sherlock would do anything like this. "You will charge it to me instead of him; I will send you the details in a moment. Are we clear?"

I gulp. "Er. Yes."  _The voice is fucking creepy_.

I write down mystery man's card details and input that instead of John's. It's only then that I realise that the bloke actually has to be present to sign the damn thing. I frown. Well, this is inconvenient.

The phone rings again. "Consider the bill signed," the man says. "Print my name on the signature line. Add an additional £2 as a tip. Are we clear?"

"All right," I sigh. "What's your name, then?"

"Mycroft Holmes," says the mystery man, and only when I've written his name down does he hang up, like he's hacked into Charles's camera systems or something.

Judging by his last name, he's related to Sherlock. Creepiness must run in the family.

When John looks over the bill that I hand him, he groans and rubs his temples. "Meddling git," he mutters, and I frown in confusion.

"Who?" I ask, and John laughs harshly.

"Mycroft, that's who."

"He's related to Sherlock, isn't he?"

"Big brother, in all senses of the word." John rolls his eyes.

"How did he even know you had a huge restaurant bill?"

"Search me." John shrugs, and clambers to his feet. He dons his jacket. "If this is Sherlock's way of apologising, I'm not sure what to think of it." He smiles strainedly at me as he zips up said jacket. "I better be off. See you later."

And as I watch him leave, I get the distinct sense that I am going to get used to the feeling of confusion very,  _very_  quickly.

* * *

All right, so not  _all_ of the music played in this place is American. But hey, when Charles insists on being hip and trendy and catering to the younger generation by playing top 40 songs, there's bound to be some puddle-jumping here.

He even imported  _me_  from the States. (But that's an exaggeration, really. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.)

The annoyingly dulcet tones of Taylor Swift are serenading us today as the door swings open and this stocky blonde woman comes marching in, that determined glint in her eyes suggesting that she's going to get plastered and she's going to like it.

Except, you know, this is a sushi bar, not an actual bar. So she must want to eat something better than your usual pub fare.

"How many in your party?" I ask, smiling cheerily at her, and she glowers at me.

"One for the sushi bar. You're Cheryl, aren't you?"

I blink. "…Is there a directory for American students studying abroad, or…?"

"No, I just heard about you from someone I know." The woman crosses her arms. I laugh weakly, before directing her to a seat at the bar. Scary woman is scary. I'm guessing there's nothing positive in what she heard.

She orders, obviously, a draft mug of Sapporo. It's a rather busy night, though, so I don't have the time to stand still and appreciate her drinking abilities. I'm seating people left and right and taking takeaway orders over the phone, and it's all generally very confusing and frustrating – in fact, by the time I have any time to stop and drink my tea in the kitchen, I've got a headache.

And the next customer doesn't alleviate that, either.

The door opens with a tinkling of the bells once more, and in comes a woman with curly brown hair and eyes focused on the mobile in front of her, and I stride out with my annoyingly chirpy "Irasshaimase!" and "how many in your party?"

"I'm Anthea," the woman says. "I called in for a takeaway order about ten minutes ago."

I blink and look at all the orders we've placed, and then at her. There is no Anthea.

And then I look down and see her order still written in my notebook.  _Shit_.

"Oh my god, I am so sorry," I mumble, feeling my face redden until I'm sure I'm glowing like the blue lights in the restaurant. "I was just getting around to placing your order."

She looks up from her mobile. "You can't be serious," she snaps. I want to melt into the ground.

"I am really sorry; I'll do that right now…" I glare at the screen, punching in the order as quickly as I dared (and with barely a month on the job under my belt, that's disappointingly very slow). She taps her feet impatiently, types away at her mobile as if she's venting her anger out on it instead of me.

Small mercies, thank god for them.

"Your total will be twenty-one pounds," I say after a moment, and she hands over her card rather coldly. I could die of embarrassment. I mean, I know very technically it's not my fault because there were so many other things, but…

But Charles is going to kill me if I get an unhappy customer on my shift. I can almost taste the Cheryl-sashimi. He could even call it the 'American Nightmare' sashimi. Plenty of people will be ordering  _that_  on July fourth, provided I keep fresh for that long.

Anthea hands me back the signed receipt, and strides over to the waiting area and proceeds to ignore me for the duration. I stare at her, uncomfortably shuffling from foot to foot, but moments later the doors open again and more people come through and  _god my feet hurt please make it stop_.

This universe hates me. It's official. Today – and every other day of the year – is Hate Cheryl Day.

* * *

The blonde woman finishes after Anthea gets her takeaway, and as I fetch her the bill she stops me and glares at me.

"You know Johnny, don't you?" she asks.

I blink. "Johnny?"

"My baby brother. The one with the mad flatmate."

Oh. "John Watson?"

"Yes."

"You… look younger than him, though."

She handwaves that. Either she's an overprotective younger sister or they're roughly the same age and it's almost negligible. "Johnny has been through some bad times in his life. He's seen enough of heartbreak. I was stupid and wasn't there to help him through most of them, but maybe this one I will avert."

Which one? I tilt my head quizzically. That oh-so-lovingly-familiar feeling of confusion is creeping up on me. It's a white fog of 'what the hell am I even doing here' and  _god_ I need an aspirin.

I hate not knowing everything. I guess when Sherlock Holmes and company sneak into your life you don't get much choice about that.

John's sister is glaring at me again. "If you break Johnny's heart, I will hurt you," she says bluntly, and I don't even realise I've taken a step back until I look down and see she's a bit farther from me than originally. Yes, I'm very observant.

"I… I'm not dating him."

She raises an eyebrow. "His flatmate thinks you are."

"His flatmate is also, as you admit, barking mad and overpossessive of John. I think I know the wrong tree when I see one."

"Consider it a warning, then." She signs the receipt with a flourish. "Don't you dare consider toying with his emotions. I won't have an American college upstart messing with my baby brother."

"Uh…" is my intelligent reply. "Yeah. Um. All right. I wasn't… well… interested in him. Anyway. Yeah."

She strides out the restaurant a moment later. And much to my inner American's chagrin, she didn't even leave a tip.


	4. I Need Another Day Job

"I hear Harry got to you yesterday," John tells me when he visits the next day, and for a moment I'm a bit too busy trying to block out "Bom Bom" by Sam and the Womp to pay attention. It makes me think of a circus, for some reason.

"Harry?" I ask.

"My sister."

"Oh, her." The scary blonde. I don't tell him that, though. One does not insult one's customer's siblings.

The music changes to "How We Do" by Rita Ora, and I groan a little as I take John's drink orders (thankfully, it's a cup of tea). No, I  _don't_ want to party and bullshit, thanks.

And neither does John, it seems, when I come out with the tea. He takes it with a grin. "I'm sorry for my sister, if she intimidated you or anything."

"Oh. Well. It's fine."

He laughs, drinks his tea. "She didn't tell me what she told you, just said she had a chat. What did she tell you?"

I'm about to answer, but the door opens and several customers come in. Two couples and a family. Glee.

I seat them as quickly as possible, because the phone rings the instant I get back to the till, and I groan as I pick up and take down a takeaway order. This time, I make sure to place it as soon as I hang up.

Another call as soon as I print the kitchen order. My hands are stained with ink from the pens. "This is the Shizuka in London, how may I help you?"

"I'd like a reservation for a party of twelve at seven o'clock," says the person on the other end.

I take down the reservation with a sigh, finishing just as my co-worker Selina arrives with a stack of bills.

"I'll take care of these," she tells me. "Go talk to your boyfriend."

"He's not my –" I sigh, reaching for the bills, but she holds them just out of reach and gestures to John. I have this sudden urge to smack her with my notebook, but that would do minimal damage and would only make me look more like an immature brat. So I square my shoulders and march over to John.

"Can I get you anything?"

John looks up at me. "More tea would be nice," he says. Bless the British and their constant need for tea.

He takes his tea with a grin when I bring it out to him, and gestures for me to sit down. "Seriously though, what did my sister tell you?" He looks slightly concerned, as if Harry threatened me with her chopsticks or something.

"Nothing much," I reply.

"You didn't sound happy at finding out she's related to me."

"Okay, so she threatened me. But that's probably because she was drunk and –"

John's expression darkens. "She was drinking?"

"Beer."

John groans. "I'm going to have a chat with her," he mutters, in a way that suggests that the chatting was going to be less civilised conversation and more shouted accusations. I wince a little.

"You don't have to – I mean, everyone for some reason thinks we're dating, so she just… reacted… to that."

"Dating?" John looks just as bemused as me. "But we're not."

"I know that." I laugh. "But apparently Sherlock and my co-workers don't."

John snorts. "Well,  _that_ explains things," he says as he finishes his handroll.

"I don't see how it makes sense at all," I mutter. "You're far older than me, for one."

"Well, they do tend to say age is just a number, but…" John trails off. "You are quite nice, but not exactly my type."

"I should hope not." I laugh, almost in relief. "I mean, you really aren't bad for… whatever your age is. But yeah. I guess when you have someone like Sherlock Holmes in your life there's not much room for anyone else, and I'm not going to be stupid enough to try and make room."

"I think I should be offended by that," John chuckles, and I facepalm.

"That wasn't meant to be! Sorry!"

"It's fine." John smiles, and I can't help but notice that his eyes are very pretty when he does it.

"What I'm saying is that… well, judging by how you tore off after Sherlock that first time we met as well as the stuff on your blog… I think Sherlock means a lot to you. As a friend, maybe, but even just  _friends_  don't chuck their wallets at random servers to pay the bill so they can run off after their dinner partner."

John rolls his eyes. "You try dealing with Sherlock's spontaneity."

"I'd probably go mad." I admit.

Of course, with the universe being the way it is (Anti-Cheryl and all), Sherlock Holmes  _would_  choose this moment to barge into the restaurant and demand in no uncertain terms that John come along with him to Harrow; there's been a triple homicide and he's pretty sure it's the hairstylist who killed them all –

"Sherlock!" snaps John, rising to his feet. "There are people eating here!"

I snicker. John hands me his wallet again with an apologetic look, and takes off after Sherlock without a pause. I stand there for a minute or two, before looking back at Paul-san, who hands me John's menu.

"Those two," says the sushi chef. "Inseparable, aren't they?"

"Yeah," I say, looking back at their retreating forms. "They are."

John picks up his wallet later, after they've arrested the hairstylist. He nods a silent thank-you to me, steals a couple of mints from the jar, and heads out into the night. Under the orangey glow of streetlamps I can see him talking to Sherlock before the two of them set out again, hand-in-hand.

I grin.

* * *

"So, together?" I ask the next time he comes in.

John blinks at me, like someone awakening from a long sleep. Or perhaps just a music stupor; "Spectrum" by Florence and the Machine is playing in the background, after all.

"Sorry, what?" he asks.

"You and Sherlock. Together?"

He chuckles sheepishly. "I  _just_  posted about it," he rebukes. "Do you have nothing better to do with your life, or…?"

I shrug. "Bored college student with an internet connection," I state, as if that's a legitimate answer to his question. John rolls his eyes.

"You need a day job."

"My day job is studying my arse off."

"You said you were bored." John chuckles. "Spend too much time with Sherlock Holmes, and you will learn to fear that word."

I giggle. "Congratulations, all the same."

John rolls his eyes. "Not sure if that's worth congratulating."

"Yes it is. You're in a relationship with a rude madman who is also conveniently your entire world."

"All right, fine." John shakes his head. "You're impossible."

I think he's the impossible one, actually. Or maybe that's just me not knowing a thing about what actually goes on between him and Sherlock outside what he posts on his blog. There's so much hidden between them, though. I'm not sure if I even want to look.

"How'd you come around to my conclusion, though?" I ask.

"I thought about it," John replies vaguely. "Came to realise that I didn't want a repeat of what happened during those three years if I could help it. Being away from him, thinking that I'll never see him again… that sort of thing, you know? That night when Mycroft paid my bill Sherlock and I had attempted to discuss those three years, and it… didn't go well."

"I thought as much. You drank a lot that night."

John grimaces. "I paid for that very nicely the next morning," he mutters drily, and I laugh. Schadenfreude is a beautiful thing.

"What about that night you told me about Sherlock's... er, fall?" I ask. "Was it just Katy Perry, or…?"

"No, that was just Katy Perry." John rolls his eyes. "But it did get me to think about it, hence the row, hence…" he shrugs, and sips his tea. "I think I should thank you for this."

"I didn't pour your tea this time," I say, ever the intelligent student.

"No, for listening. And being a friend."

"Oh." I smile. "You're welcome."

In a way, I do rather fancy John Watson. But it isn't John Watson as John Watson, but rather John Watson as a symbol for what he stands for. Bravery, loyalty, saintly patience. He's a normal, decent bloke in love with a madman. I'd be lucky to find someone to put up with  _my_  own brand of insanity.

I don't tell him that, of course. I've got my own Watson to find.

"Twopence for your thoughts?" John asks. I blink.

"Oh, nothing. Just thinking about what to wear for your wedding to Sherlock."

He snorts and shakes his head. "And I was  _this_  close to inviting you over to our flat for dinner."

I laugh. "I think I deserve to keep some thoughts to myself for once," I reply, and he nods in a 'fine, point conceded' way.

"Bring me a bottle of Hatsukuru, won't you?"

Some things never change.


	5. Epilogue: A Long-Expected Party

"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you! Happy birthday, dear Sherlock, happy birthday to you!"

Sherlock pouts at all of us like the overgrown child he is, and makes a big show of blowing out the single candle stuck into his tempura ice cream.

"You should've worn the party hat, Sherlock; you'd look much more cheery in the photos," says the older woman whom John introduced as Mrs Hudson, their landlady. We're gathered together in the private party room of the restaurant, but it's a very small affair. Sherlock (very understandably) has few friends.

But those he does have are all loyal to him in some way, so I guess that's much better than having a bunch of fair-weather ones.

I look around at Sherlock's friends – and the only not-friend in the group, his brother Mycroft. Ah, finally a face to the creepy voice. Mycroft is eying the ice-cream rather greedily. I suspect Sherlock will eat it all just to spite him, which is a nice change from not eating anything at all.

"You won't guess what I got you, Sherlock!" gushes the young woman sitting next to John; she's apparently a pathologist at Bart's and also dating DI Lestrade, who's also at the table and heartily drinking his beer.

Sherlock takes the package, shakes it a little, and grins. "Actually, I know exactly what you got me, Molly, and  _really_? How many depraved sex shops did you go through to find it?"

Molly flushes bright scarlet. John claps a hand to his mouth, obviously trying to hide his amusement.

"Oh, you kids," scoffs Mrs Hudson, but Sherlock sends her a 'I also know exactly what you got me and I honestly don't know why you all are sending me sexually-charged presents' look. Or at least that's how I see it, based on Mrs Hudson's blush.

My present of a book on famous cold cases around the world suddenly feels extremely out of place.

"I'd like to thank you all," John says, "on behalf of my, er, partner, for coming to his birthday party."

"You planned the entire thing. I was fully intending on ignoring it."

"Exactly  _when_  was the last time you had a birthday party?"

"I don't see the use in celebrating the day I popped out of my mother's womb, thank you very much."

John sends me a 'look at this impossible git that I'm in love with' look. I shrug and laugh.

Lauren, Ryan, and Selina come in to take away empty plates, and Charles arrives with them as well. He shakes everyone's hands, especially Mycroft's, and asks about the quality of the food and service. Said questions are, of course, answered by all except Sherlock in the highly positive range. Sherlock says something about the scallop dynamite being over-baked, but John counters that with "Only by one minute, Sherlock, if at all. Besides, it was even more delicious that way!"

I can see how Sherlock will benefit with John around to smooth the feathers he ruffles.

Off-case, Sherlock Holmes isn't as frightening as he is simply amusing, but then again I guess he'd resent that opinion as well. I can still see why he'd alarm and annoy nearly everyone he meets. He's an annoying dick. But John brings out a different side of him, softens him slightly, makes him more human. Even I, with my oh-so-amazing observational skills, can see that.

And if the universe tries to mess with that again, it'll have to go through me first.

**FIN.**


End file.
